Bitter Dancer
by Tsar Bomba
Summary: "My two greatest enemies are those that I cherish most in this universe above all else, my dear Clara. If I were you, I'd take it as a compliment." Alternate ending to the Witch's Familiar. Missy/Clara. Very very M.


They'd barely broken orbit before he told her that they needed to turn around. Clara had seen it coming. For all of the Doctor's unpredictability he was predictable in one aspect, and it was in his dealings with the Mistress, like she was an inevitability tethered to the both of them, a clinging shadow they couldn't be rid of.

"You'd go pick her up after what she did to me?" Clara spat, appropriately angered in spite of the fact that she knew there was no point. The proof was in his face, his expression apologetic and shameful under his furrowed brow. The way he wouldn't meet her eyes even as she stood nearly toe to toe with him, her gaze driving into his downturned lids. He wouldn't look at her, the marks on her temples, the scuffs on her clothes, the faint iron smell of blood from small scrapes and scratches and the smell of decay from the sewer. She'd done all that for him, but Missy had as well. That much went unsaid but it was implied by what he said next. "I owe her one," is what he told her, and Clara laughed bitterly. " _Owe_ her?"

"She did save you once, Clara. And if she hadn't brought you here I'd probably be dead too."

"And then she immediately tried to kill me after. A few times. All to prove some sort of _point_ to you. You'd think that they'd cancel each other out, yeah?"

"Once is enough. It's enough for me, given her track record. And besides, right now I'm not sure that leaving her in the middle of a power struggle with an army of leaderless Daleks will have good long-term consequences."

She was quieted. She ignored the last part, because looking ahead at "long-term consequences" wasn't really something the Doctor did. He was rationalizing.

He'd really thought she was dead and gone for a time though, not knowing that she and Missy both were in the underground right beneath his feet, armed with nothing but a pointy stick and the force of their wills. She ignored the strange, unwelcome tug of nostalgia (and something unnamed) with which she recalled their time in the desert and sewer (and pressed against the walls of said sewer) and briefly, over the anger, imagined how devastated he must have been for those couple of hours.

He finally looked at her, frantically, as usual unable to properly formulate his racing thoughts. His two closest friends nearly lost in the course of a day, all for him. He looked a little scared. A little ashamed. Clara wasn't sure if she wanted to force him into a hug or slug him in the jaw. He looked back down at the console and when she didn't object again he glided them quietly back to Skaro, a guilty dread making Clara feel nearly sick as they descended.

Great, tar-black plumes of smoke billowed out from the city, whipping about in the wind like charcoal flags. The horizon itself was a fray of fire and dust and the sky was muted and smeared as if by oil. Distant explosions boomed intermittently across the still, dead barrens, remote. The devastation seemed total and catastrophic, almost as if the Daleks had initiated some sort of failsafe. The Doctor acknowledged that some of this might have been Missy's doing but there was no way to know.

They landed on a ravaged hillside in the center of a long-abandoned dirt path. Missy emerged from the dust and was seated on the ruins of a half-wall underneath the broken shade of tree that had been split in two as if lightning had carried her there, just a short distance away from where the TARDIS had landed. She looked like she'd been expecting them, as always with the perfect timing of a villain in a cartoon. She appeared entirely unscathed to spite the destruction around her and stood in the haze when the door opened and smirked at the both of them, pointedly shifting her eyes to Clara as she finally spoke. "Miss me?"

Clara blushed and immediately hated herself. She clenched her teeth. The Doctor didn't notice. He gestured at the burning city. "What happened?"

Missy turned and surveyed it like an artist would a painting. "Not sure. I think our little tin friends panicked and triggered it."

"How'd you get out alive?" Clara asked, trying to force a little bite into her words to smother the genuine curiousity. Missy just gazed at her. "Death is for other people, dear."

They all stood staring at each other for a time. Missy brushed a little sand off of her skirt and then made to walk towards them through the thin, murky smoke. Clara willed herself not to flinch as Missy stopped before them, studying them both while she waited for someone to speak. She felt her hands twitching in this proximity. Clara had been wrong: Missy wasn't entirely unscathed. A thin cut extended across her temple and down her the sharp line of her cheek. Entirely superficial, but the smallest bit of scarlet blood seeped out. Clara had never seen a Time Lord bleed and until now she wasn't sure they could. She was nearly overcome by the strangest urge to cup that cheek and wipe the blood away with a trembling thumb.

Either that or she wanted to run her tongue along it so that it stung and hurt. She really couldn't be sure. Today had been a stressful one and she wasn't positive she could trust herself. She forced her gaze away but Missy had caught her staring and gave her a cocky smile, curling her lips like she was holding a rose between her teeth. Clara tried to break the stare but unconsciously licked her own lips and even out of the corner of her vision she could see Missy's face light up wickedly.

"There's going to be some rules if I'm to take you off this rock. And you'll follow them, else I'll just leave you here," the Doctor said, and both women automatically clicked their eyes over to him almost as if they'd forgotten he was there. He sounded tired, too tired to notice the buzzing tension that sat thickly between them.

"Oh? And what might those be?" Missy drawled, knowing just as well as they did that the threat was an empty one. The resources here to be accumulated would be catastrophic in the wrong hands, and her hands were as wrong as they came. "You going to tie me up? Clap me in irons?"

She was already looking back at Clara, giving her an implicating sort of stare as if the action were irresistible and done without calm. Clara swallowed away a bitter taste in her mouth and tried not to enjoy it.

"You'll behave yourself is what you'll do," the Doctor said. It was fairly obvious that he wasn't sure what to do with her now. Again, with the disregard for long-term consequences. Missy likely knew as much but regardless she shrugged and held her wrists out, being prisoner less complex than the alternative. "Your cuffs or mine?"

The Doctor simply stared at her for a moment and then turned on his heel and walked away. Missy, wrists still presented, turned her eyes to Clara and winked, breaking the frayed thread that had been holding the very last of the girl's self-control together. Clara lunged forward and grabbed a wrist harshly, pulling Missy towards her and reveling in the hiss that escaped the Mistress's teeth. She put her mouth close to Missy's ear.

"You try anything, anything at all, and I'll kill you, you understand? First chance I get."

She felt Missy laugh lightly against her neck and then felt her tongue trace just barely against her jaw, so gently Clara almost wasn't positive it had happened. She repressed the shudder that wanted to roll its way down her spine.

"You really think you could, poppet?"

Clara lifted her other hand to rake her fingers into the back of Missy's hair, taking a handful and pulling hard while shoving her away just far enough to meet her stare, keeping her wrist held tightly between her looped fingers. Her big doe-eyes were steely and cruel. "I don't care how much the Doctor loves you. How long he's known you. How devastated he'd be if something happened to you. I will kill you if you try to hurt either him or me ever again and even if he hates me for it he will let me do it. Are we clear?"

Missy's own typical wild-eyed gaze was calculating and coldly calm. She was appraising Clara as if in judgment. Finally her lips curled, and the cast of her eyes changed once more. Their faces were very close. Clara hadn't properly considered what this proximity might mean for her in this state. She resisted the powerful urge to lick her lips or gulp down the hard lump that hung in her throat.

"I really think you could," Missy murmured, almost as if in praise. Clara felt her breath on her lips as she spoke, cool and tasting faintly of the iron in blood. An inhuman, metallic taste. "Yes, I knew there was a reason I picked you. You make me question it sometimes though, make me wonder if you've got the _stomach_ for this sort of business."

Missy tried pulling away and Clara instinctively held on harder, fisting her curls with more force and holding tighter to the thin wrist. Missy sighed in what was barely veiled pleasure and Clara realized with a furious blush that Missy had done that on purpose. She looked at her through hooded eyes.

"You should show me sometime how hard the puppy can bite."

An insistent whirring behind them ruined any chance Clara had for a rejoinder, not that she had one. Instead she clicked her teeth shut and let Missy go, spinning on her heel to leave the Mistress smirking after her, skirts whipping about her the hot desert wind.

Clara watched the water stream from the sink into her hands. She had it turned to be as cold as it could go. Over and over she filled her cupped palms and splashed her cheeks, as if scouring away the dirtiness and wrongness she felt had been etched onto her skin from the moment that the Mistress had first summoned her to the courtyard what now felt like weeks ago. She felt fouled, unclean, and even guilty, though she couldn't pinpoint why. She hadn't done anything. Not yet at least.

The TARDIS creaked and she flinched, spinning her head about, her hands and legs trembling. She was exhausted, whatever adrenaline had been keeping her going after far too many close calls was wavering. She stared in the mirror at a face that didn't look like her own. Her eyes were red and the pupils were huge. The gentle slopes of her visage had taken on a foreign hardness. Her lips were dry and cracked and there was dust in the creases she couldn't wash away. She shut her eyes and splashed herself once more.

When she looked back up the Mistress was standing behind her, leaning against the doorframe and studying Clara through the mirror. Clara froze, the water overflowing from her stilled hands and dripping slowly off her jaw. Missy smirked at the war of loathing and coveting that clouded Clara's eyes. In her black coat and looming behind her like she was she reminded Clara of a devil on her shoulder. A stark reaper. Clara foolishly had the notion to wait for the angel to show up but he was nowhere to be found. She took a towel and dried off her face, covering her eyes as if she could will Missy away in doing so. "What do you want?"

"Oh my, is this rudeness necessary?" Missy said, speaking like she would to a child. She took a step closer. This was a small room. She didn't need to move much to close the space between them. Clara turned around, dropping the towel, and edged herself away from the sink.

"You nearly done in here?" Missy said quietly, not breaking her gaze even as Clara turned away from the mirror. "This is the only washroom on this dump."

Clara's eyes were locked on Missy's face, searching for deception. The dark, cruel lips were twisted in a parody of a smile, the pale, serpentine eyes were hungry. Missy suddenly lunged, like a snake striking a mouse, pinning Clara back against the wall her with body and holding her wrists with cold hands. Missy moved her face forward but stopped just a breath away from Clara's. Clara, to her incredible mortification, had already prepared her mouth for the kiss and froze when Missy didn't carry through, her lips parted. A livid blush smattered itself across her cheeks and chest. She looked away. Missy laughed.

"Eager, aren't we? Bit of a false start there."

Clara tried to rip herself away from Missy's claw-like grip. Nails dug into her wrists and she bit down a whimper.

"Release me," she said, putting as much fire into her wavering voice as she could. Missy again laughed openly at her and mocked her by gently dragging her lips across Clara's own, the touch as light as falling ashes. Missy pressed her thumbs into Clara's wrists and felt the pounding, mutinous heartbeat, Clara betrayed by her own raging blood.

"You sure you want me to? I think you rather like being pinned against walls."

Missy pressed her thigh into the apex of Clara's legs. Clara felt like she was swimming, lost in a haze of pent-up fury and hatred and pure, unadulterated need. She felt the knot in her stomach coil, the pressure there nearly painful.

"That was cute, what you did back there on Skaro. Thinking you could threaten me. Almost endearing. Like a puppy barking at a dragon."

Missy's mouth hovered millimeters from Clara's own, her breathing even and measured against Clara's ragged inhales.

"Nothing to say? Ooh, look at you," Missy said, her accent thick and rasping in the back of her throat, her voice low. "I've got your knickers all _sorts_ of twisted, don't I?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Clara spat out between clenched teeth. "I think I've got yours just as twisted."

"You think so?"

Clara ripped a hand free and reached around Missy's back, trailing her nails down her spine to grasp at her ass, kneading dangerously close to her inner thighs as she pulled her very close, their bodies flush. The muscle in Missy's jaw twitched just slightly. It was the only indication she gave but it was enough.

"Yeah, I do."

Then she leaned forward and dragged her tongue down the cut on Missy's cheek and rasped her teeth down her neck, hard. Missy inhaled sharply and spun away as if dancing, covering the unbidden delight in her eyes with a cool smile. The water was still running in the sink. She turned it off. A red line was blooming along the tendon at her neck.

"The puppy bites harder than I thought," she said, the whirlwind in her eyes contrasting sharply with the porcelain calmness of her face. "Maybe the puppy needs to be punished."

Silly innuendos aside, Clara could barely keep herself standing as the Mistress sauntered out the room, the threat hanging ominously behind her, leaving the door open as if to present the ragged mess that hid within to anyone who happened to walk by. She slumped against the wall and allowed herself to slide down shamelessly, the weightlessness and bloodlessness in her head making her dizzy, Missy's laughter and her scent and the coolness of her flesh lingering after her like death, bittersweet and inevitable.

The jacket was off today. Clara had dreamed before about the jacket with nothing underneath it. Dreamed about a creamy expanse of silky skin from Missy's pillar of a throat to the hollow between her hips, about swirling her tongue in the space between her ribs.

But she wasn't wearing it today. Today she had her sleeves rolled up, a few buttons undone at her collar, not even enough to show anything.

Tease.

Clara marked her spot in her book with a pointed finger and watched her, no longer hiding when she stared. There was no point. There was a time that this sort of unhinged lust would've greatly shamed and embarrassed her. Maybe it still did, she couldn't be sure. It wasn't something she wanted to address, not when she could fixate on Missy instead.

The game that Missy had forced Clara to be a participant in was not going in her favor. It seemed that whenever the Doctor left a room that Missy filled his space, like planets spinning in opposite orbit around a tired sun. It was as if one could not exist in the same space as the other, like it would be too much strain on the frayed threads of Clara's reality. It was impossible then for the Doctor to see just exactly what she was doing to her, regardless of the tension that hung oppressively thick all around her, like a shroud. He had other things to worry about, Clara's own hang-ups not being a priority and she knew it.

When the Mistress came into a room she eclipsed whatever comfort and ease Clara felt in the presence of her well-intentioned friend with the dread of a boogeyman. A boogeyman that liked to drag a nail like one would a dagger across Clara's throat when she snuck up silently behind her, feather-light and gently raising the skin as Clara tried her hardest not to react since that's what Missy wanted. But like water over stone she was wearing her down.

Missy was absent-mindedly stroking her wrist with her thumb. Clara had all but forgotten about the book now. She closed the cover.

The day to day was becoming exhausting, a blur of time and wonder and want, how the badlands want for rain. Their mutual prisoner had no interest in diabolical scheming, in domination, in destruction, at least not in regards to anything or anyone other than Clara. At all other times she appeared courteous, calm, and most worrisome of all she appeared sane. Based on action alone, one would have thought her reformed. She wore the disguise of a saint and only Clara knew better. Missy's attentions were singular. It was as if a creature had manifested itself for the sole purpose of her relentless pursuit, like the powers that be had created the perfect predator for the perfect prey, fined-tuned to every smothered desire and secret allure that Clara had ever experienced. It was maddening and intoxicating and by far the worst thing to ever happen to her.

This game they were playing was unfairly weighed in Missy's favor. Only she seemed to know the rules and only she seemed capable of deciding when it was over. Every delicate, "accidental" touch, every wayward glance, every twisting lip was another won round for the Mistress. The game itself could only be won in one way and by one player, for it was only over once Clara finally broke. And break she would. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it was inevitable in the way that time was inevitable. This bitter dance needed two participants, and Clara knew it wouldn't be long til she flung herself willingly into waiting arms.

Besides, this was an easy game for the Mistress. She'd been playing it for centuries: stringing along whatever innocent fools that were either stupid enough or allured enough to play it with her. The Doctor called her a master manipulator, but Clara knew just as well as Missy did that she was in this willingly, even on the losing side. Clara was different. This was different. And Missy _loved_ different.

Missy wasn't watching her now though. She was idly staring at her fingernails, toying with her hair. She glanced at Clara and took on an expression as if she'd just noticed that the other woman was even in the room. "I'm sorry," she said, leaning her head back. "Am I distracting you?"

Clara would've blushed before, now she just chewed a bit on her lip. "Distracting? Nope. Wasn't a very interesting book anyway."

That was a blatant lie. It was one of her favorites. Clara opened it once more, eyes scanning the pages as if the paper were blank. Missy smirked. She stood up and sauntered over to Clara, her movements measured. She straddled her thighs and put her hands on Clara's shoulders.

"How about now?" she asked, in the sweetest, most innocent voice one could imagine. Clara swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued to read. "Nope, still good, thanks."

Clara heard a very soft pop. Then another a few moments later. Keeping her face towards the book in her lap, she slowly shifted her eyes up. Missy was undoing the buttons on her blouse, one by one, her deft fingers unraveling them easily.

 _Pop_.

Silky black bra. Straps looping over her collarbones. Faint ladder of ribs. All right in Clara's face. Missy leaned forward and carefully pressed a kiss on Clara's temple, giving her an eyeful of the shallow valley between her breasts. Clara was clenching her fists so hard that she could've ripped the book in two. Missy shifted just slightly, letting out a breathy sigh as she moved herself against Clara's shaking thighs to place her lips at the spot just below Clara's ear.

"What about _now_?"

Clara decided, then, in that moment, that she was going to have to be okay with losing. She'd even to learn to enjoy it if it meant doing the things to Missy that she wanted and needed to do to her. Fact of the matter was that she was far too tired to fight it any longer.

Everything happened very fast: one moment Clara was sitting there, tension and desire pooling into her stomach and between her legs, hands and fingers fighting the urge to move, grasp, hold, and then the dam finally broke. Missy witnessed the shift as if watching the rise and fall of an entire civilization such was her concept of time, but even she let out a genuine gasp of surprise when she suddenly found herself on her back, flipped entirely, as Clara covered her mouth with her own, possessively and wantonly and needily. The Mistress briefly considered fighting her off, laughing in her face and dancing away again, ever turning, leaving the girl worked up and let down once more, but such was the force and desire behind the kiss that even she knew better, and wanted better.

Their mouths moved against each other with no calm. Missy kissed as Missy would: possessively, with a lot of teeth and a lot of tongue. Clara had wanted to keep her pinned there, hands bound above her with her fingers, but quickly her fingers were wrapped around the back of Missy's neck, buried in the warmth of her curls as she drew her closer, moaning openly, and smirking against Clara's lips as Clara took Missy's bottom lip between her teeth and bit down, almost too hard, delighting in the brief pain followed by the pleasure that flitted across her features as she gasped against her.

Clara was between Missy's thighs, but there was too much skirt between them and with a frustrated growl Clara broke away and forced it up Missy's legs, running her hands up her boot-clad ankles, then her trembling calves and finally around to her inner thighs, skittering against the warmth there, trailing delicate, dangerous touches towards the juncture between them, and then bunching the skirt up around Missy's waist and pressing herself between Missy's spread legs, grinding her hips into her as Missy watched, eyes wide, lips just barely parted, her breaths quiet and shallow and very uneven as her chest heaved, the blouse coming undone entirely as Clara ripped it open and leaned forward to latch her teeth greedily onto Missy's neck as they rolled against each other, Missy's flighty hands everywhere and her feather-light moans driving Clara on happily towards madness as she claimed her throat as her own, leaving behind vibrant marks that would later fade to a lilac and ochre, a gentle remnant of the war that Clara's mouth had waged there, like the soft haze over a battlefield.

Missy's hands wandered up Clara's shirt. They were freezing and she shuddered as she trailed her nails down her spine none too gently, and then followed the pain with a caress from her palms, like warmth over the cold of her marking her. They moved around towards Clara's chest and squeezed her breasts over her bra, Missy's thumbs circling the peaks beneath as Clara squirmed against her, every exhale releasing a keening sort of gasp that left her feeling almost shamed.

This wouldn't do. Not here. This position didn't allow her any room to move, to claim, to conquer. Clara ripped herself away and almost laughed at the look on Missy's face at their separation. It would almost be a shame to not leave her like this, leaned back against the sofa, eyes hooded and nearly feral with want, legs open and quivering, she the most gorgeous mess Clara had ever seen.

She took Missy's wrist and pulled her behind her as they rushed towards her bedroom, but Missy teased her with cheeky grabs and her raucous laughter and they ricocheted from wall to wall as they stumbled down the hallways, bruised lips locked and clothes torn from shoulders, hanging loose off their frames, the both of them huffing into the others mouth. It would be a wonder if they made it to any bed at this point.

Against all odds they all but fell into Clara's room, fighting for control. It was Clara who ended up on top, grappling with Missy's hands as she attempted to reassert her dominance and flip them back over. Clara wasn't having it. Straddling Missy's hips, her rolling and tossing beneath her like a wave, with a wicked, wanton smirk on her face, Clara knew she needed to tell Missy what she wanted to hear.

"You win," Clara said, her fingers wrapped roughly around Missy's wrists. She leaned down and kissed her fully, enveloping her mouth, sucking and gasping with only slightly more gentleness than she had before. Missy murmured something against her lips and Clara sat back just slightly. "What did you say?"

Missy swallowed, her eyes alight, her hair mussed and her looking so achingly beautiful that Clara nearly couldn't believe it. Missy was regarding her with a wildeyed stare that surprised Clara with its intensity. "I said, _I know_."

Clara shook her head and kissed her again, kissed along her jaw, her throat already dappled with faint bruises, along her collarbone. Missy didn't fight her as Clara reached behind her shoulder, undoing her bra and then kissing her breasts, laving her tongue against her nipples and kneading almost roughly, needing desperately to possess, to take Missy with the same sort of jealous, furious, uncontrollable abandon that she needed.

"I want," Clara murmured, expelling words between rasping breaths and between kisses and careful bites, "I want you to think of me every time you move, every time you _breathe_ I want you to feel me on you."

She shrugged the last of her clothes off, watching Missy below her, allowed her hands to roam over pale skin as she moved herself to straddle Missy's mouth, lowering herself fully and then shuddering when she felt Missy's warm tongue splayed along her length, felt her chill breath on her.

"Whatever you want, poppet," is what Missy muttered against her but Clara wasn't paying attention. She sighed and leaned forward enough to grab the headboard for balance, Missy's hands flowing up her ribs to cup her breasts. Clara looked down at Missy's closed eyes, her head swaying up and down as she explored Clara's folds fully, taking the time to after every upstroke to swirl her deft tongue around Clara's clit. Clara lowered a hand and took a fistful of Missy's curls, careful not to pull too hard. Missy opened her eyes and looked at her, smiled against her, and Clara gasped.

What followed was a chorus of oh gods, pleases, yes and yes and then just Missy's name, over and over, as Missy drew her closer and closer, her mouth both needy and giving as she took Clara's throbbing clit in between her lips and sucked, flicking with her tongue. Clara had chosen this position because it put her on top but here she had no dominance. It was all-powerful, all-having Missy who had her dancing on the tip of her tongue, and who finally drove her over the edge, her nails digging hard into the Mistress's scalp, her thighs shaking around her head and her eyes screwed shut as she pulsed against Missy's face, the sheer jubilation almost maddening and nearly painful as it rolled up her body.

She fell forward, breathing hard, her body twitching. Missy continued to lick her gently, running her hands over Clara's back. Clara released the hold she had on Missy's hair and moved down her body, on shaky arms, feeling numb and bloodless and wonderful. She all but collapsed on top of Missy, lazily kissing her, tasting herself on Missy's mouth, tracing her body with her hands. She shut her eyes, allowing herself to be enveloped in the lingering warmth of what was an incredible release, one that she had needed so much worse than she had realized. Then she felt long fingers clasp her jaw and she opened her eyes. Missy was gazing at her recklessly and needily, her lips parted.

"What? You think it's time for a nap? Don't be selfish now."

Clara blushed and Missy smirked mockingly at her. "Right," Clara said, propping herself up on one hand and raking her eyes over Missy's form, taking her all in. Clara could have devoured her.

She shifted, moving so that she could get a hand between them, wasting no time on ceremony. Missy was slick and ready. Clara brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked, tasting her, bittersweet and tart and perfect. She let her fingers explore teasingly, splaying themselves within Missy's folds and just barely brushing along her clit, around her entrance. Missy was breathing harder now, shamelessly thrusting her hips to meet Clara's hand, to take the edge off the pressure between her thighs.

"Please," Missy breathed, and immediately her eyes flew open in shock. She hadn't meant to beg. The Mistress never begged. Clara just stared at her, almost overcome. Gone was the predator. Missy had allowed herself to be caught, Clara knew that from the beginning, but clearly she hadn't been aware just how ensnared she really was.

For once, Missy seemed speechless.

Clara had two options: either she could mercilessly taunt her, drag herself down to Missy's level, and string her out more before finally complying, thus risking a wrath that she may or not be prepared for (but could be worth it) or she could do the exact opposite.

Missy had lowered her gaze. She wasn't blushing but this was likeIy the closest she'd ever get to doing so. Clara watched her, viewing the emotions flickering across her pale eyes like a panorama, like clouds across a frail horizon. She _could_ be bad about this, part of her wanted to, but deep down, under all that fleeting loathing she'd once felt, she knew she was a good girl. Clara didn't say a word as she lowered her lips to Missy's, tugging lightly, and Missy immediately surrendered. Clara pressed two fingers into her, reveling in the look on Missy's face as she did so, feeling her lips part against her own and watching her brow furrow as Clara made a slow come-hither motion with the tips, beckoning her closer, sliding against tight, pulsating walls and rubbing her clit carefully with her thumb. Missy wrapped her arms around Clara's back, dragging her nails across her shoulders and burying her face into Clara's neck.

Clara leaned back, wanting to watch her face as she came undone. Missy thrust against her, whining, wanting, unable to move her hands fast enough over Clara's goosebumped skin. "Clara," she whimpered, the word a prayer. Clara began to push just a little harder, a little more insistently, fucking Missy like she'd always wanted to fuck her. Clara felt like she should say something, tell her how she was hers now, how she always had been, how every flick of her wrist and every crushing kiss said "mine, you're mine. This is your prize for winning, my claim over you," but there was no point because Missy knew.

Every breath was a symphony, every movement perfect as if orchestrated. Clara didn't understand how she could have ever hated this woman, seeing her like this, unbound, shameless, empyrean, but looking and sounding very, very human.

She came in a soft cacophony of broken pleas, sharp nails dug into Clara's shoulder blades, legs locked in a vice around Clara's hips as she tightened around her fingers, their teeth clicking as she moaned her name into her mouth, over and over. "Clara, Clara, _Clara._ "

She slowly stilled and went quiet. Clara turned them onto their sides and placed her ear against Missy's chest and listened to the roar of her blood and the beating of her hearts, surrounded by the floral musk of sex and sweat, Missy caressing her hand along Clara's back, so gently, so devoutly. Clara had no doubt that this place right here was where she belonged, considering again the notion of inevitability but now without the aching dread of it and she suddenly felt exhausted. Missy was whiplash. She was both the nightmare cycle and the dreamscape, the shift between the two surreal and unexpected. Not a week ago Missy was trying to kill her, and now here she was, naked in her bed, sweet and warm. Smothered was the madness, the bloodlust, the chaos. Clara was greatly conflicted by her situation but she wasn't sure she could doubt the legitimacy of it.

Missy slowly opened her eyes, her breathing calm once more, staring at Clara through the ruins of her cruelty, like peeking through a shattered glass window. She, watched, entranced, seeing the cold intelligence, the genius, the sheer beauty that hid itself under the mask of her insanity, laid out for Clara to see, all for her. No doubt that this was why, in spite of all the hatred, all the spilled blood, all the chaos, that the Doctor never could and never would be responsible for the demise of the Mistress. She was too weird to live but too rare to die. She was a missile without a target, a relic in an empire of dust and ash, and now she was staring at Clara with a reverence reserved for gods. Clara felt a strange sort of wonderment and fear in this privilege. She again wanted to say something but now she wasn't sure what, so it was Missy who spoke instead, her voice low.

"In a way, this is why I chose you for myself in the first place," Missy whispered, and Clara immediately recognized the altered quote, what she'd last said to the Doctor before fleeing at Skaro. It was a theatrical thing to do, a very Missy thing, but Clara listened attentively, hanging on every word.

"To make me see. The lover inside the enemy. The enemy inside the lover. Everyone's a bit of both," she said, her voice trailing off. Clara frowned at her. "I'm still your enemy after that?"

Missy smirked but the expression held none of the coldness it once did, only a foreign but welcome sort of endearment. She raised a hand to lightly rest a chill palm on Clara's cheek. "My two greatest enemies are those that I cherish most in this universe above all else, my dear Clara. If I were you, I'd take it as a compliment."


End file.
